


The Losing Side

by EchoSilverWolf, englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternating Narration and Epistolary, Angst with a Happy Ending, Description of Torture/Injuries, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, John Watson Has Feelings, John is a Mess, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock has feelings, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Texting, There is NO Mary here, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-08 12:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 10,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14105424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: Sherlock was the only person whose loss had ever brought Captain John Watson to his knees.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Immense thanks are due to our clever, supportive, and patient beta [libetdawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/libetdawn)! Also thanks to [agirlsname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname) for her characterization notes and enthusiasm. Cover art by the brilliant @allsovacant ([Tumblr](https://grey-skymorning.tumblr.com/))
> 
> *Author Note: Please note the dates. This story will jump around in time in a few places. It is fairly clear, but putting this here to be safe*
> 
>  

The height is dizzying as he looks down at the darkened streets of London. All the time spent here, at this hospital, in his life before and after meeting Sherlock, and he had never once actually come up here. Never stood on the roof of St Barts.

A shudder of panic and vertigo runs through him and he backs up one step, away from the edge, to catch his breath. 

Had it been like this for him, too? Did he feel fear, or just hopelessness at that moment? Or, like John does now, both?

It's been almost two years since Sherlock jumped, and the pain hasn't dulled. The nightmares are just as vivid. The grief just as paralyzing. Images of flailing arms and that long coat fluttering. The sickening thud of a body hitting pavement. The smell of rain and iron. The blood. So much blood. Blood had never fazed him much; why would it? For a man who had seen people bleed out in his own hands, blood shouldn’t bother him. Nor death, really. He was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen his share of both. Until the day that blood surrounded dark curls and blank verdigris eyes. Until the death of the best friend he had ever known had sucked all the colour from John's world, and the will to live from his soul. 

Every morbid detail committed to memory. The sights. The sounds. The smells. His own personal mind palace-type hell. 

His own choked words echo in his mind.

“Let me through, please. He's my friend.” 

A still-warm wrist with no pulse. Hands pulling him back. The buzzing sound of shock settling in his head. 

It comes rushing back, mocking him, and he sinks to his knees in the moonlight just as he had on the pavement two long years ago. This time under the stars, just inches from the last place Sherlock Holmes had ever stood. 

“Let me through, he's my friend,” cycles on repeat in his head. Friend. His friend. The best and wisest man he had ever known. His  _ best _ friend. 

_ “We both know that's not  _ quite _ true,”  _ a sing-song voice of another dead man in his head taunts him. 

And it's right. He was so much more than just a friend. He was nights spent out of breath from running, he was sarcasm and wit, he was takeaway and crap telly. He was severed heads in the freezer and eyeballs in the microwave. He was laughter and companionship. Sherlock was the one person who, with all his being, he had ever truly loved. Due to his own cowardice, the words had gone unspoken. 

He shakes his head and that last thought away. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Sherlock was the only person whose loss had ever brought Captain John Watson to his knees... quite literally. 

He looks up to the sky, to the constellations, small faraway things that were ordinary and deletable to the man whom he now knows he cannot live without. 

Here, alone, he would finally do it. That niggling desire he had been fighting. Now. Tonight. It would end. There would be no note. Who would need one? No pills or alcohol or guns. No easy out. 

No. It has to be here - alone. 

It has to be  _ here  _ so people will know why. 

_ Let them talk, they do little else. _

In the same place, in the same way. With only the night sky as witness. 

With a choked voice he weakly calls out to the flickering black canopy above.

“I defy you stars!” A poetic quote issued into the nothingness of night. 

“You went where I thought I couldn't follow, but I would, and will, follow you anywhere… like I always did… even in this,” he whispers through a choked sob as he drags himself to his feet and steps up, his left foot touching the edge of the rooftop.


	2. 04 April 2012 | 20:46

**_You know who I am and what I do. Obviously. You should also know I am much more likely to respond to a text, but if you really must leave a message, do try not to be dull._ **

John Watson opens his mouth to leave a message before it hits him: there is no one, no Sherlock, left to hear it. He blinks unseeing at the worktop where the kettle has gone cold, his friend’s baritone voice ringing in his ears. Lifting the mobile once more, he selects the last number dialed, listening with dry eyes. He continues to redial until his battery dies.


	3. 23 April 2012

23/04/12, 23:14

[Sent] I don't know why I'm sending this…   
  
[Sent] I visited your grave today. I say your. Wasn't you though, was it? Heavy and cold and quiet. You weren't quiet. Even when you weren't talking, you were loud. Why did you do it? Why did you...   
  
[Sent] It was my fault. Course it was. I didn't know. How could I? You always came out alright, in the end. 

[Sent] Please, Sherlock. I'm begging, please. Just tell me. Why?

 

The hand holding his mobile drops to his side and he uses the other to draw up the rumpled duvet, curling in on his own body and burying himself in pillows and sheets that still smell of the man that slept here last. Turning his head, he stares at the silent phone in his hand. With each shaky breath, sharply inhaling the scent of his best friend, and with each heartbeat, waiting for that mobile to chirp. Waiting for this nightmare to end. Waiting for some sort of absolution that never comes.


	4. 05 May 2012

05/05/12, 16:14

[Sent]  I punched a man in the face today. Second time I’ve done that for you.

[Sent]  We were at a newsstand, and he pointed to your photo, made a comment about knowing you’d been a fraud ‘all along.’ I didn’t hit him for calling you a liar, Sherlock. I hit him for saying ‘was.’

[Sent]  When are you going to stop all this?


	5. 24 May 2012

24/05/12, 02:33

[Sent]  Sometimes at night…

[Sent]  I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, even to you. But you would’ve known anyway, wouldn’t you. If you were here.

[Sent]  Sometimes at night, Sherlock… I hear your violin.

[Sent]  And cry.


	6. 08 June 2012

08/06/12, 04:33

[Sent]  Whyy th hell won’t you anser answer me, Sherrlock.?

[Sent]  What makes your so damn. Bloody special that you can just

[Sent]  Just go

[Sent]  Jus go, Sherlok. Just go.

[Sent]  Why dyou have to just 

[Sent]  Whyd you have to go

 

John’s head falls back against the faded red fabric of his chair, mobile clutched in one hand, empty glass in the other. The eventual harsh light of dawn breaking through poorly closed curtains fails to rouse him from the blackness.


	7. 09 September 2012

09/09/12, 07:19

[Sent]  I’ve taken leave from the clinic, Sherlock.

[Sent]  Every bruise, every stitch, every refusal to go to A&E… they’re all you. Each and every one of them is you. 

[Sent]  I waited for you to walk through my door every day. Waited to see you bloody, stabbed, limping, alive. I would kill for it, Sherlock.

[Sent]  I would kill.


	8. 20 December 2012

20/12/12, 17:25

[Sent]  Greg found me with my gun in my hand the other day, and he’s made me go back to Ella. 

[Sent]  You’ll make that ‘solar system’ face of yours, wondering who Ella is. My therapist, Sherlock. Mycroft once told me to fire her, that first night with the cabbie. But she knows my story, and I can’t start over.

[Sent]  Maybe she’s not the best. Maybe I need the misdiagnosis.

[Sent]  I explained to Greg that I was just cleaning the gun, but he didn’t believe me. For once, he was right.


	9. 15 January 2013

15/01/13, 01:48

[Sent]  I haven’t told her about us, Sherlock. About our texting. She’d think I was crazy, losing touch with reality.

[Sent]  But I can hear you, in my head. I can hear you answering me, when the room is quiet.

[Sent]  When I curl into the back of the sofa, the only place I can sleep.

[Sent]  Your scent still lingers there. You’re still with me, I know it.


	10. 14 February 2013

14/2/13, 21:04

[Sent]  I turned up pissed to therapy, Sherlock. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

[Sent]  I told her about us. About this. And she said…

[Sent]  She said I have to stop.

[Sent]  But how can I stop, Sherlock? How can I stop when this is all that I have?


	11. 22 March, 2013

22/03/13, 20:31

[Sent]  I have to stop this. They’re watching me - there’s been an intervention. Even Mrs H thinks it’s too much. 

[Sent]  That’s how I know. I have to stop.

 

John places his mobile in the zip-top bag held out for him and nods. “Come on, mate,” Greg prompts kindly as he motions to the door. He’d drive to the new flat, acquired at Mycroft’s expense, and keep watch that first night.


	12. 13 January 2014 | 07:50

He searches frantically for his badge, late for his shift again. He’d meet Greg for coffee afterwards - there’d been no more pub nights since that disgraceful session with Ella. There’d also be no ‘after work’ if he couldn’t find his bloody - 

And suddenly, there it was. His old mobile, lying dormant in the bottom of a disused drawer. He felt the newer one, the one he’d been issued by his friends when he moved, deep in his trouser pocket. It was heavy with the weight of betrayal.


	13. 14 January 2014

14/01/14, 02:18

[Sent]  Theythink they know bout us but they. Dont.

[Sent]  Even I dindt know. Til now. Now I

[Sent]  Now I knoW. I KNoW..

[Sent]  Was alwayss jus us wasn t it?

[Sent]  Me n you. Wass alway us two.

[Sent]  Can be two again. If i could rememeber how

[Sent]  To be a soldier.


	14. 15 January 2014

15/01/14 22:47

[Sent]  It was Mycroft who caught me this time. He’s taken it away.

[Sent]  He doesn’t know I’ve still got yours.


	15. FLASHBACK: 25 April 2012 | 13:41

“Nice phone.”

Sherlock grunts in annoyance at being addressed by a stranger. At a bus stop. After losing his lighter.

“It’s a classic,” the heavily-accented man continues. 

The castaway detective glances up sharply at the code words, eyes narrowed with misgiving as his unwanted companion nods at the cigarette clutched like a life-raft between his fingers. 

“I’ll trade you a light for a text, need to send a message to my brother.”

He hands over the beat-up Nokia, more interested, at the moment, in smoking than the hint he’s being given, and inhales deeply. It’s his first in weeks, and might be his last for who knows how long. The cheap plastic lighter and phone are returned to their respective owners as the city bus arrives, and Sherlock turns his back on the ‘Shokran,’ that fades into the wind as he boards alone.

 

Messages>Sent

25/04/12, 13:23 

[Sent]  William - must collect new coat from cleaner before close. 

[Sent]  Phone borrowed. Meet at the depot Ul. Braće Radić 87. 1900.

 

When he is tucked back into his safe house for a brief rest, he risks opening the battery cover. As expected, a dry cleaning ticket had been placed inside. He immediately sinks into his mind palace to search for a suitable place to dispose of the phone.

*****

Leaning against a lamp post on the busiest thoroughfare in the city, Sherlock slips his hand into an inner pocket of the coat he’d collected - and for which, truth be told, he is grateful - and retrieves a mobile identical to the one which he had rid himself of hours earlier, scuffs and all. He switches it on and waits for the home screen to appear.

 

Messages>2 New

25/04/12, 19:04

[Received] _ You knew once what you were fighting for. To ensure that you do not lose sight of the goal, I have found you a source of more personal, if vicious, motivation. You will receive a series of forwarded text messages. The original sender should be obvious. These are programmed as one way transmissions, to save you from your own inevitable foolishness.  _

[Received]  _ Clear this with the usual method. M _

  
_ Bloody Mycroft, _ he thinks, pulling the jacket closer around his gaunt frame. He wonders how long he will have to wait for these messages - messages which, to serve as sustained motivation, could only come from one person - when the screen flashes: 4 new texts received. He swallows hard, knowing that reading this will be construed as a bit not good; knowing that whatever he is about to read must be more than a bit not good itself.


	16. 14 January 2014

His hands shake as he slams the beat-up mobile down onto the sheets with one hand, while the other rakes through recently cut, but still too long, hair.

He wants to reply. For it, just once, to not just be words on a screen, but a real message.

_“I am coming home, John. Please, for me, stop this!”_

But he can’t.

This whole situation is quickly spiraling out of control...and the potential consequences are something he can’t stomach the thought of.

_This is all Mycroft’s fault!_

_I will kill him._

_I will commit fratricide without an ounce of regret!_

_The stupid, BLIND, self-absorbed ARSE!_

_One job. The pompous swine had ONE job. To watch John till I could get back. Warned him to mind the texts... how they were getting extremely not good._  

_He is the one sending these bloody messages; how is he not seeing what is going on?_

_I wouldn’t even be IN this godforsaken excuse for a hospital - would never have been caught, at least not then. Not if he had been paying attention!_

He notices one of his nurses, the young American who blushes far too often, in the hall tapping away at her mobile, and sees an opportunity.

He quickly begins to alternate between holding his breath and panting erratically as he watches the numbers rise on the monitor and the alarm bells begin to sound.

It takes less than fifteen seconds for her to be at his bedside, cold stethoscope pressed to his chest... it takes just a couple more for him to slide her phone out of her side pocket and slip it beneath his sheets.

 

14/01/14, 14:15

[Sent] You are a damn idiot, Mycroft! How the HELL have you not been watching?

[Sent] Do you not even read these messages when you forward them?

[Sent] If anything happens before I can get back there, brother, I will personally ruin you. I will bring everything you have built for yourself crashing down around your ears, if he so much as gives himself a papercut.

[Sent] I don't care what you have to do or how, but you WILL get me out of this ridiculous excuse for a hospital and back to London, and you will do it NOW.

[Sent] And you WILL watch him, Mycroft. If you have to call in all of MI6, or the CIA or the bloody QUEEN to do it, you will have eyes on him constantly!

[Sent] I swear it Mycroft, if anything happens to him and you don't stop it...


	17. 29 January 2014 | 23:43

The height is dizzying as he looks down at the darkened streets of London. All the time spent here, at this hospital, in his life before and after meeting Sherlock, and he had never once actually come up here. Never stood on the roof of St Barts.

A shudder of panic and vertigo runs through him and he backs up one step, away from the edge, to catch his breath.

Had it been like this for him, too? Did he feel fear, or just hopelessness at that moment? Or, like John does now, both?

It's been almost two years since Sherlock jumped, and the pain hasn't dulled. The nightmares are just as vivid. The grief just as paralyzing. Images of flailing arms and that long coat fluttering. The sickening thud of a body hitting pavement. The smell of rain and iron. The blood. So much blood. Blood had never fazed him much; why would it? For a man who had seen people bleed out in his own hands, blood shouldn’t bother him. Nor death, really. He was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen his share of both. Until the day that blood surrounded dark curls and blank verdigris eyes. Until the death of the best friend he had ever known had sucked all the colour from John's world, and the will to live from his soul.

Every morbid detail committed to memory. The sights. The sounds. The smells. His own personal mind palace-type hell.

His own choked words echo in his mind.

“Let me through, please. He's my friend.”

A still-warm wrist with no pulse. Hands pulling him back. The buzzing sound of shock settling in his head.

It comes rushing back, mocking him, and he sinks to his knees in the moonlight just as he had on the pavement two long years ago. This time under the stars, just inches from the last place Sherlock Holmes had ever stood.

“Let me through, he's my friend,” cycles on repeat in his head. Friend. His friend. The best and wisest man he had ever known. His _best_ friend.

 _“We both know that's not_ quite _true,”_ a sing-song voice of another dead man in his head taunts him.

And it's right. He was so much more than just a friend. He was nights spent out of breath from running, he was sarcasm and wit, he was takeaway and crap telly. He was severed heads in the freezer and eyeballs in the microwave. He was laughter and companionship. Sherlock was the one person who, with all his being, he had ever truly loved. Due to his own cowardice, the words had gone unspoken.

He shakes his head and that last thought away. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Sherlock was the only person whose loss had ever brought Captain John Watson to his knees... quite literally.

He looks up to the sky, to the constellations, small faraway things that were ordinary and deletable to the man whom he now knows he cannot live without.

Here, alone, he would finally do it. That niggling desire he had been fighting. Now. Tonight. It would end. There would be no note. Who would need one? No pills or alcohol or guns. No easy out.

No. It has to be here - alone.

It has to be _here_ so people will know why.

_Let them talk, they do little else._

In the same place, in the same way. With only the night sky as witness.

With a choked voice he weakly calls out to the flickering black canopy above.

“I defy you stars!” A poetic quote issued into the nothingness of night.

“You went where I thought I couldn't follow, but I would, and will, follow you anywhere… like I always did… even in this,” he whispers through a choked sob as he drags himself to his feet and steps up, his left foot touching the edge of the rooftop.

A barely perceivable noise, a slight tapping, gives him pause, and he growls low, dangerous and desperate, without needing to turn around.

“Go away Mycroft, this is not your concern anymore.”

“Step away from the edge, Dr Watson.”

John sighs and replies quietly, without turning around, without hesitation.

“No.” Then he continues, his tone still a warning, “He was your brother, Mycroft. How, HOW can you just move on with your life as if a part of it wasn't torn away from you?”

“Before assuming that I am completely heartless, allow me to speak. Permit me a moment to relay more data which may inform your decision before it is too late. _”_

 _“_ No. Mycroft. Just, no. You can either stay there and watch or you can piss the fuck off.” He carefully steps up fully onto the ledge.

“I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import some misadventure,” Mycroft quotes, an uncharacteristic, and almost gentle, desperation in his words.

John goes rigid. “You heard that, then. ‘Course you did.”

“Romeo and Juliet. How truly fitting, John, particularly as you are about to perform a modern day reenactment before my eyes. I fear the ramifications will result in a similar ending that will be unavoidable, even with my own intervention. Now come down before you should either lose your balance or decide to act rashly out of stubbornness.”

John turns to glare at him.

“Come _down_ , John,” he tries again with more force. “You were a soldier, now act like one! You are _better_ than this.”

“ _He_ wasn't better than this,” John mutters, but slowly steps off the ledge. “You have five minutes, Mycroft Holmes. Before I finish this or punch you in your pompous face, or both.”

Mycroft eyes him, knowing he may very well end the evening with a broken nose.

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a very cracked and scuffed mobile, turns it on, takes a cautious step toward John, and holds it out.

“It is still functional...I never terminated the account…”

John takes the phone, turning it over in his hands. He had held it so many times. Fished it out of pockets, carried it across the flat; he would know it anywhere.

“I retrieved it after… when the other body was removed. Small act of sentiment on my part. It began receiving messages shortly after. All of them from one number. All of them from you, Dr. Watson.”

John's eyes flash in anger.

“You had no right,” he snarls.  

“I was awarded five minutes. Allow me to continue and then, if you must, you can do as you please.”

“Oh, you have no idea, you bastard,” John growls, but stands at parade rest, glowering at the taller man.  

Mycroft continues. “You could not have stopped it, Dr Watson. You are unaware of the stakes of the game that took place where we stand.”

“I should have tried,” John states defeatedly. “You know what I said to him? The last words I spoke to his face? I called him a machine. A _machine_. We had a row and I stormed off. After that it was only the phone call. I should have known it was a set-up. I was too late getting back here. I should have said more in that call. I should have tried to stop it, I should have…” His voice cracks and he averts his stinging eyes from the elder Holmes.

“Not one word from you could have changed his mind. Not when it was your life he was  choosing to save by jumping.”

At that, John’s head jerks back up to stare at him.

“ _MY_ life?”

“Moriarty...” Mycroft begins.

“Put a gun in his mouth. Not much of a threat to me dead.”

“He had snipers. That was the game. Three gunmen. Three targets. Three lives at stake. The Detective Inspector. Mrs Hudson. And, of course, you. He gave him no choice. No way out. No way to call them off. He killed himself to force Sherlock's move. His life… for yours. For theirs. Ruin his reputation and die in shame, or live and lose all those for whom he cares.”

John worries his lip as tears threaten to slip free.

“That still doesn't explain why you felt you had the _right_ to read any of those texts Mycroft, and knowing that he chose to die for me - us - doesn't change my mind about…”

“Patience, Doctor. I realize it seems rather an unsettling thought that I was monitoring your texts to my brother’s mobile, but you must know it was neither out of pity nor lack of respect for your privacy. It was a kindness.”

“How in bloody hell was that a kindness?”

“I did not say to whom. You made my brother a better man; for that I am grateful. However, you also became a weakness. A pressure point. I spent decades attempting to shield him from the pain of sentiment... of _love_ . You broke down _every_ wall that I helped him build. Part of me hates this fact, while the other thinks that, perhaps, I did him a disservice in my attempt to protect him. Regardless, you remain the only person to whom he has ever been _attached_. Before you entered his life, he would never have allowed his heart to rule his head. But now…”

He pulls something from his pocket - a second phone - and hands it to John.

“It was a kindness to _him_ … and now that I have told you as much as it is my place to say, I dare say you will find everything else you need to know here.”

John takes the phone warily and glances down. A string of messages, sent and received, shows on the screen. He recognizes the first text received as the one he sent the night he visited Sherlock’s grave. However, instead of just continuing in a string of messages like the original... there are replies.

“If this is some kind of sick joke, Mycroft, I swear to God above it won’t just be _my_ body on the pavement by morning.”

Mycroft’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I assure you I would not be so cruel.”

John's own phone pings at that moment and Mycroft gestures for him to check it. He fishes it out of his jacket, and his eyes go wide at the text.

 

29/01/14, 23:58

[Received] _Come home when convenient. If inconvenient, please, John, come home anyway. -SH_

 

His heart hammering, he whispers, “He's alive?” Balling his fists, he takes a step toward Mycroft, his eyes boring a hole into the taller man’s tailored greatcoat.

Mycroft pales, but stands his ground. “Just look at the phone, Doctor. You will find all your answers there. My part in this is done.”

John advances again. This time Mycroft retreats several paces.   

“I asked you a question, you cock,” John growls. “Has he been alive this whole time? The both of you in on it, while I was left to grieve? You call that not being cruel?”

“There was no other way, John. We couldn't find any way to prevent what you've gone through _and_ keep you alive. Even now, bringing him back is risk; however you have become a bigger risk to yourself, I am afraid.”

“I’d have died _for_ or _with_ him, you know. It was always the two of us... it should have been _together_ ... we should’ve done it together,” John says defeatedly. “I didn't need to be mollycoddled. You... _he_ could have let me choose.”

“Whatever you may think of me, Sherlock's happiness and best interest have always been my only objectives. You, Doctor Watson, are central to both, and he was not willing to risk you, even if it means losing you now.” He backs toward the stairwell. “I hope that you trust me enough to truly see what I have just given you, and that by the time the truth is clear, I will not have to see your death on the news tomorrow. Or his; once was quite enough. Good evening, John.” With that, Mycroft ducks his head through the doorway and is gone.

John looks back at the message on his own phone.

_He's alive._

Rage and relief battle each other as he raises the mobile that Mycroft had given him. He reads the start of his own broken words, before scrolling on to the reply.


	18. 30 January 2014

23/04/12, 23:14

[Received] _I don't know why I'm sending this…_

[Sent] John, really. You know why you sent this.

[Sent] Sentiment.

[Sent] Though I do not say that with the reproach I once would have. I say it, now, in awe, that you would feel so intense a loss for someone like myself.

[Received] _I visited your grave today. I say your. Wasn't you though, was it? Heavy and cold and quiet. You weren't quiet. Even when you weren't talking, you were loud. Why did you do it? Why did you…_

[Sent] I know you were there, at my grave.

[Sent] You got that part a bit wrong however. I was there as well. Only not beneath your feet.

[Sent] For once, my silence was painfully necessary, but I was there.  I had to see you one last time, if only from the shadows.

[Sent] You asked me for a miracle, John.

[Sent] For you.

[Sent] To stop being dead.

[Sent] I heard you.

[Sent] If I could avow just one thing, it would be to give you that miracle.

[Sent] I am alive, I was alive, I hope to stay that way so that I may fulfill that request.

[Received] _It was my fault. Course it was. I didn't know. How could I? You always came out alright, in the end._

[Received] _Please, Sherlock. I'm begging, please. Just tell me. Why?_

[Sent] John. Please. Do not ever blame yourself. You didn't cause this. You did nothing wrong. Quite the opposite; you were, as usual, the only light in a dark place, and had I truly died that day, or should it still occur, having you there and hearing your voice at the end would have been enough. I promise, John, I swear, I will explain the why (and the how) to you. I cannot, at the moment. My time right now is limited, but John, do not blame yourself. This was forced on me and, in turn, forced on you. I would have stopped it, had it been an option, but I was only given one. I only wish that your heart had not needed to be collateral damage.

  
05/05/12, 16:14

[Received] _I punched a man in the face today. Second time I’ve done that for you._

[Sent] The thought of the first time you did that makes me smile despite myself.

[Received] _We were at a newsstand, and he pointed to your photo, made a comment about knowing you’d been a fraud ‘all along.’ I didn’t hit him for calling you a liar, Sherlock. I hit him for saying ‘was.’_

[Sent] Please don't go getting arrested on my behalf. Don't need another ASBO.

[Sent] Let them talk. As I've said, people do little else.

[Received] _When are you going to stop all this?_

[Sent] John…

[Sent] I...

[Sent] I wish that I could.

[Sent] I will.

[Sent] Unsure how long it will take, but I will…

[Sent] I will.

 

24/05/12, 02:33

[Received] _Sometimes at night…_

[Received] _I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, even to you. But you would’ve known anyway, wouldn’t you. If you were here._

[Received] _Sometimes at night, Sherlock… I hear your violin._

[Sent] You’ve always heard it at night, John.

[Sent] Though I never said why, and you never asked.

[Sent] The nights you had nightmares, there was always music...

[Sent] Because I played for you.

[Sent] It was the only way I knew how to help.

[Sent] You aren't hallucinating, John... you're remembering.

[Received] _And cry._

[Sent] Oh, John…

[Sent] I never meant to…

[Sent] I... I do not know what to... I don't know how to do this...

[Sent] Please, don't.

[Sent] If I could, I would play for you for hours just to prevent this.

 

08/06/12, 04:33

[Received] _Whyy th hell won’t you anser answer me, Sherrlock.?_

[Sent] John… I would give anything to be able to do that.

[Received] _What makes your so damn. Bloody special that you can just_

[Received] _Just go_

[Sent] I... I am sorry.

[Sent] For everything.

[Received] _Jus go, Sherlok. Just go._

[Sent] I didn’t realize... I didn’t know how much...

[Sent] I didn’t know.

[Received] _Why dyou have to just_

[Received] _Whyd you have to go_

[Sent] I never wanted to.

 

09-09-12, 07:19

[Received] _I’ve taken leave from the clinic, Sherlock._

[Received] _Every bruise, every stitch, every refusal to go to A &E… they’re all you. Each and every one of them is you. _

[Received] _I waited for you to walk through my door every day. Waited to see you bloody, stabbed, limping, alive. I would kill for it, Sherlock._

[Sent] I had to stitch up my own arm tonight.

[Sent] It isn't as easy as you made it look.

[Sent] John...

[Sent] It never hurt when you did it.

[Sent] The precision of a surgeon…

[Sent] The gentleness of someone... who cared.  

[Received] _I would kill._

[Sent] John…

[Sent] For this... for you...

[Sent] I have.

 

20/12/12, 17:25

[Received] _Greg found me with my gun in my hand the other day, and he’s made me go back to Ella._

[Sent] Fear is something I have become more intimately familiar with these days…

[Sent] But there is nothing here, no danger, no injury, that terrifies me like you are doing, John. I would strangle my brother, right now, if the opportunity presented itself, for not allowing me even one minute of time to contact you. I have no idea how to comfort or help you... but I would try.

[Sent] I always tried to be better for you.

[Received] _You’ll make that ‘solar system’ face of yours, wondering who Ella is. My therapist, Sherlock. Mycroft once told me to fire her, that first night with the cabbie. But she knows my story, and I can’t start over._

[Sent] I wish you realized that there isn't anything about you that I have deleted. Even the name of your former counsellor.

[Sent] My brother is wrong. She may have missed things, but... this... you need someone. Someone who knows you. I sincerely hope she can help you. Help you hold on... or failing that, help you move on.

[Sent] If your safety means forgetting about me, it is worth it in the end.

[Received] _Maybe she’s not the best. Maybe I need the misdiagnosis._

[Received] _I explained to Greg that I was just cleaning the gun, but he didn’t believe me. For once, he was right._

[Sent] If there is anyone else besides you and Mrs Hudson who I would trust with my life, and with yours, it would be Inspector Lestrade.

[Sent] Please. Trust Greg. Yes, I do, in fact, know his name. Let him help. He saved my life once. I am not sure I ever said.

[Sent] I am sure he will be better at this than I ever could be.

[Sent] John...

[Sent] If you move on I can accept that. I can.

[Sent] But...

[Sent] To lose you... to yourself… because of me…

[Sent] Please, John. For me. Just live.

[Sent] You asked me for one more miracle... now I beg you for just this one in return.

 

25/12/13, 00:32

[Sent] It is so dark here at night. No lights. Only stars. So still and quiet.

[Sent] Under different circumstances, I think you would like it.

[Sent] At the moment it feels quite empty.

[Sent] The stars are the one solace I have.

[Sent] I have taken to mapping out the constellations in my mind when I am unable to sleep - which is almost always.

[Sent] Did I ever...

[Sent] Did I ever tell you how I re-learned the solar system?

[Sent] Planets, stars, constellations… all of it.

[Sent] I meant to tell you.

[Sent] I wanted to make you laugh.

[Sent] I wanted to make you happy.

[Sent] I just want you to be happy.

[Sent] I just want…

 

15/01/13, 01:48

[Received] _I haven’t told her about us, Sherlock. About our texting. She’d think I was crazy, losing touch with reality._

[Sent] Please, John, I need you to remember... This isn't real. I am not there.

[Sent] No matter how much I wish I could be.. _._

[Received] _But I can hear you, in my head. I can hear you answering me, when the room is quiet._

[Sent] In your mind... what do I say?

[Sent] Am I a sharp-tongued arsehole?

[Sent] Am I kind?

[Sent] In your mind, do I know how to help?

[Sent] Because I do not know what I should say.

[Sent] I want to know what to say.

[Received] _When I curl into the back of the sofa, the only place I can sleep._

[Received] _Your scent still lingers there. You’re still with me, I know it._

[Sent] I would always be with you had I a choice.

[Sent] Would leave here…

[Sent] Would come back…

[Sent] Come home…

[Sent] To you.

[Sent] Would you…

[Sent] Would you let me sit with you?

[Sent] Not in our own chairs, like before - but together.

[Sent] On the sofa.

[Sent] Would you

[Sent] Would you curl into me, John?

[Sent] Allow me to… to hold you?

[Sent] Is this too bold a question?

[Sent] There are things, John…

[Sent] I never said

[Sent] I should have told you

[Sent] I will tell you...

[Sent] If you let me.

 

14/02/13, 21:04

[Received] _I turned up pissed to therapy, Sherlock. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

[Received] _I told her about us. About this. And she said…_

[Received] _She said I have to stop._

[Received] _But how can I stop, Sherlock? How can I stop when you’re all that I have?_

[Sent] This has gotten far beyond my ability to endure. I had to do something. I have this horrible feeling that this is only going to get worse, and I am not sure I can watch that happen, with no means to intervene.

[Sent] I made an emergency stop today... missed one of my leads in the process, but I do not honestly care at the moment. I had to find a phone, a real, working one. I wish it could have been your voice on the other end.

[Sent] I’m sorry, John…

[Sent] I needed someone to step in on my behalf - and he is the only option. You may hate me for it, if he does, but I assure you - I will hate him more if he doesn’t.

[Sent] John... I can’t help you…

[Sent] I only hope you will allow someone else to do it.

 

22/03/13, 20:31

[Received] _I have to stop this. They’re watching me - there’s been an intervention. Even Mrs H thinks it’s too much._

[Received] _That’s how I know. I have to stop._

 

16/06/13, 22:27

[Sent] John

[Sent] I am sorry.

[Sent] I was an idiot, although I do not regret my actions. Your words, for lack of a proper way to describe it, they scared me. I had to intervene the only way I knew how.

[Sent]  I had to tell him.

[Sent] It is my only connection to you. To being able to help you.

[Sent] I could kill him for not monitoring these messages better and seeing it himself. Or maybe he is so far removed from emotion that he just doesn't see it.

[Sent] I saw it. I didn't want you to... I couldn't allow it to go any further…

[Sent] So if I overstepped, please, know that though I am sorry you had to be... cornered... by people you care about, I will never regret the decision that led to it.

[Sent] Sentiment, however, is indeed found on the losing side. Making that call did not just cost me a lead. It cost me my cover.

[Sent] John, I am not sure I am coming home.

[Sent] I suppose now that it's come to this, and it is only a matter of time, I can say -

[Sent] I made it as far as the final thread of Moriarty’s web. All connections to you or anyone else I know have been eradicated. You are safe. That really is all I needed to ensure. That threat is done. It was only down to finishing this whole endeavor, taking down his last connections. Then coming home. I am fairly certain that last part will no longer happen.

[Sent] Being as it may end up my last chance to ask this of you...

[Sent] John

[Sent] Forgive me? I only tried to keep you safe. I may have succeeded in some ways but in others I have failed you spectacularly.

[Sent] This…

[Sent] It's not my area.

[Sent] I regret not being brave enough to admit to myself that I am not immune to feelings... to sentiment... to attachment… to caring.

[Sent] All because of you.

[Sent] This may be my last opportunity to put down anything I would want you to know. Regardless if you ever get to see it.

[Sent] John.

[Sent] It was all for you. All of this.

[Sent] And any hurt I may have caused you in the process, I am so deeply sorry for.

[Sent] It was always only ever you.

  


14/01/14, 02:18

[Received] _Theythink they know bout us but they. Dont._

[Received] _Even I dindt know. Til now. Now I_

[Received] _Now I knoW. I KNoW.._

[Received] _Was alwayss jus us wasn t it?_

[Received] _Me n you. Wass alway us two._

[Received] _Can be two again. If i could rememeber how_

[Received] _To be a soldier._

[Sent] John,

[Sent] Of course it was always the two of us. Always.

[Sent] It will be the two of us again... I swear it. Just give me time. I am coming home.

[Sent] I was… delayed.

[Sent] But, I am coming back, John.

[Sent] Don't let me be too late.

[Sent] Please.

 

15/01/14, 22:47

[Received] _It was Mycroft who caught me this time. He’s taken it away._

[Received] _He doesn’t know I’ve still got yours._

[Sent] Please, stop this!

[Sent] I've never begged for anything in my life - I am begging you, now, please… I am coming... I just need a little more time... please, John.

[Sent] There is no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson…


	19. 30 January 2014

The biting London air doesn’t force John into a cab. Instead he walks, head down and collar turned up against the freezing winter wind, letting his legs guide him. He doesn’t notice the brick and mortar, the glass and steel, the white stone of the silent buildings he passes. He doesn’t see the sparkle of the city against the midnight sky. He doesn’t pay any mind to the rogue pigeons hopping out of his path as he stalks down the pavement, feet falling fast and heavy, as though he were losing his own private marathon through the empty streets.

In the cold it feels like days, perhaps a week, before he is there - a man having journeyed through the desert of his own mind - blinking up at an all-too-familiar sitting room window. A window where fairy lights had hung at Christmas. A window from which music had floated in spring. A window which was now dark, save the very faintest light reaching out to him, from somewhere deep within.

John’s legs turn to lead as he trudges the final few meters across Baker Street to do his obligatory dance of indecision on the pavement. He wonders what he is supposed to be doing. He wonders why he isn’t already doing it.

His tellingly light steps tred seventeen times toward a knob which feels unnervingly alien under his palm, and he slips inside, into the near-darkness, and closes the door behind him before looking up.

An unforgettable baritone cuts through the dim lighting.

"You left Bart's in a hurry; however, you changed your mind halfway. You detoured to the park instead - had an internal crisis - decided to walk back, but took your time, still undecided about returning. Despite the cold, you chose the longest and most indirect route. Once you reached Baker Street you lingered across the road, possibly watching the windows. After you crossed, you spent a considerable amount of time outside, pacing - oscillating on the pavement, John?”

He can see Sherlock’s eyebrow arch and his lips twitch in a half-smile at the attempted humour but, with the underlying nervousness in that once overconfident voice, it falls flat.

John’s back straightens, his fists clenching fiercely at his side, nails biting into his palms to displace the rage, the pain. A gutteral sound issues from his throat - a wordless warning to the corporeal shade sitting before him, the ghost made flesh that, for once, would not be blinked away.

Sherlock’s smile fades and his tone changes to something much more somber, and almost pleading.

“John... forgive me, please, for all the hurt I’ve caused you, for all that my actions have put you through. I am truly sorry. If there had been any other way…”

Sherlock lets out a resigned sigh, and gives him a look that says he wants to move, but is afraid of doing so. He motions to the empty chair across from him, instead.

“Sit, John? Please? Let me attempt to explain?”

“ _Explain_. Explain, Sherlock? What more could you…” He sucks in his lower lip and looks away for a moment before locking fierce eyes on the detective. “Do you have ANY idea at all, Sherlock?” John’s nostrils flare as his volume increases. “The confusion, the blame, the... the suffering -”

“You weren’t the only one,” comes the whispered interruption.

“ _What_?” he growls through gritted teeth, challenging Sherlock to respond.

“Suffering,” the detective answers, choking on the word. “You weren’t the only one.”

“How dare you think,” John returns in an eerily calm voice, “for one moment, that whatever you experienced while you were off playing at Moriarty’s little _game_ without me, could compare to what I’ve been through -”

“Maybe,” Sherlock breaks in, just a bit more loudly this time, “if you understood how I -”

“How?!” John’s voice cracks, his soldier’s demeanor breaking down around him. “You think I care one bit for HOW you d-did this? Because you didn’t just DO this, Sherlock. You did this TO ME. I’ve spent years - YEARS, Sherlock - believing that I killed my best friend. Do you have any idea what that’s like? Believing that, if only you’d said something different, done something sooner, that person would still be alive. Can you even imagine what that’s like?”

Sherlock forces his gaze to remain on the eyes of the man berating him from across the room. Tries to ignore the inconvenient pricking behind his own, while reigning in the urge to scream at his former flatmate. Trying for indifference and failing spectacularly, he mumbles brokenly,

“I don’t have to imagine.”

“No,” John huffs out a sardonically. “No, you don’t have to, do you? Because you’ve been watching my downfall all this time, haven’t you? You and that _brother_ of yours, having a nice little laugh at my expense. Poor, dim, pathetic John Watson. Thinks it’s all his fault, as though the world revolves around him, yeah? Drinking himself into madness over a man who isn’t even dead. Was it fun, Sherlock, having your secret? Watching me lose my life, my mind, nearly losing my career over your death? Did it keep you entertained while you were running down alleys someplace, coat flying behind you like the fucking superhero you think you are? Did you ever stop to pity me, Sherlock? Did you cry for me, poor wounded soldier all on his own? Or can a sociopath like you even feel hurt at all?”

Sherlock stands, slowly,  and closes the distance between them in two strides, and for an instant John readies himself for a fight, part of him hoping for it.

What he doesn’t prepare himself for is the look of absolute torment when those glistening verdigris eyes pin him where he stands. An uncharacteristic look of pain, anger, sadness and frustration.

He falters a bit at this, but stands his ground and resolutely does not look away.

Something is off in Sherlock’s voice when he speaks, instead of condescending arrogance, or biting vitriol, there is only tired, stoic calm.

“No”, he takes a ragged breath and continues when John’s eyes flash with anger at the perceived slight, “What I meant is, no, I did not pity you, John. I was _terrified_ for you. Fear is not a feeling I am accustomed to. I did not fear jumping, I did not fear for my safety when there was none, I did not even fear pain or my own death when… the point is, I _did_ feel fear. Fear of losing _you_ , of not being able to save you and having it be, in a sick twist, my own fault, when the whole ludicrous plan was all to prevent just that - and isn’t that just a turn-up? This was never a _game_ . This was never _fun_. I am not a hero, John, I have tried to tell you... but I tried to be, just this once, and I may have eliminated one threat to you, but I caused another, and…” Sherlock’s voice trails off and he averts his eyes.

“After all of it, I put you in just as much danger as I tried to save you from!” he blurts out, defeatedly.

John swallows hard, almost painfully, his throat too dry to contract. He grits his teeth against the onslaught he knows is coming. The emotional precipice upon which he balances threatens to shift beneath his feet, and he is determined, at least, to control which way he falls.

“You say ‘danger,’ like you used to, as though it’s some abstract nonsense. This is my _life_ we’re talking about. _My_ life.” His voice, like his body, quavers with anger. “Mine, Sherlock. Mine to keep, to live, to throw away as only I see fit. It was for _me_ to decide tonight. It should have been for me to decide that day. I would have risked it, I would have risked _everything_ . It should have been _my_ choice. But no. That’s not how the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes operates. Flouncing around as if everyone else is just a pawn, a piece to be maneuvered on the board. So you tried to save me... from what? Myself? I wasn’t yours to save, but apparently I was yours to torture. Because that’s what it was, Sherlock. It was torture. Can you even begin to understand that? Or is that one too much for your negligible emotions too?”

For a brief instant, anger finally flashes across Sherlock’s features as he raises his eyes to John’s again - only to be replaced, immediately, with something completely different, a reaction John knows too well - something bordering on pain and the edge of actual panic.

Sherlock’s eyes never leave his as he drops his dressing gown to the floor, and in one fluid motion, lifts his shirt over his head and spins around, to bare his pale torso to John. His pallid, too-thin body - now marred from shoulder blades to hip bones in a sickening criss-cross of rope-like scars, bruises, recently stitched gashes and burn marks.

Johnlets out an audible gasp, taking a faltering step backwards, as his friend’s head and shoulders slump forward, with an utterly defeated sigh.

“I _do_ understand, John. I understand and I am deeply sorry for any torture my own actions inflicted upon you.” There is not a trace of  sarcasm in those words, and that in itself nearly breaks John as he stands, frozen and horrified, still staring at the ruined flesh in front of him.

When he fails to form words into a reply, still in shock and valiantly attempting to swallow down the bile rising in his throat, Sherlock continues softly,

“Three snipers, three guns, three bullets - set to take the three people that mattered most from my life. Although it would have changed nothing had it been only one - had it been only you. I would have done it for only you,” Sherlock’s already unsteady voice breaking on the last word.

“John? I couldn’t let him… I had to... _I_ was the pawn... I had no choice… tried to... had to save you... and I had to _hurt_ you... I _had_ to... I... forgive me…”

The words aren’t even forming a coherent sentence anymore, just run-on babble trailing off as the pale, emaciated body in front of him begins to quiver, and his friend’s hands move to pull the t-shirt back down from around his neck.

“Don’t,” John’s own voice startling him as his body seems to move on its own accord, one hand reaching out to gingerly trace a finger over one of the more healed-looking marks. “Jesus, Sherlock…” His hand trembles as he caresses the rare swathes of virgin skin between lacerations. His voice drops to a dangerous low. “Are they dead?”

“Who?” Sherlock asks.

“The ones who did this to you. Are they dead?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers simply, calmly, as if afraid to break the moment.

“Good.” John knows his own voice sounds desperate, sad, raw. “Then I’ve been saved the trouble.”

He carefully pulls Sherlock's t-shirt back down himself, smoothing it. His hands trailing slowly, tentatively, down Sherlock’s sides. The man beneath them, still trembling, shivers at his touch.

With a feather-light pressure, John turns Sherlock’s body around to face him.

“John,” Sherlock begins, then seems to notice the silent tears streaming down John's face - he reaches out in the darkness, hesitates, then brushes a calloused thumb beneath his left eye. Sherlock’s fingertips linger just a moment on the side of his face and as he pulls away, John places a firm hand over his, pulling it back. The tears continue to fall as John’s eyes close.

“One more miracle,” he murmurs, then inhales sharply and takes a step back, shaking his head and fixing his gaze on the man before him. The air is thick around them, alone in the deep hours of the night.

“You said there were things you’ve never told me. Things that you’d say if you... when you came back. Say them now.” John’s eyes shine, at once pleading and defiant. “Sherlock, if you really want... say them now.”

John can see the immediate war of emotions rush over Sherlock’s face at the command - fear, insecurity, sadness, and something else he can’t put a name to - as those sharp features begin to soften. Doing nothing to attempt to hide or even fight back the echoing tears glistening behind sea-glass eyes.

This is Sherlock without the mask, without the walls - this is the man beneath, allowing John to see inside - and he looks utterly broken and vulnerable.

“I…,” Sherlock’s voice breaks on the word and he takes a deep breath, before trying again, “I never knew... if the things I wanted to say... I... I didn’t know if they would be welcome, John? Now... I feel like I am stepping off a ledge again, and this time there is no plan - no guarantee… and I am _afraid_.”

Frantic, damp eyes are pleading with him, and John has to bite his lower lip to keep back the sob threatening to break free.

John steps firmly into Sherlock’s space, chest visibly heaving as his breathing increases.

“I won’t let you fall this time.” His voice is husky, raw. His red-rimmed eyes are searching, desperate for an answer before the moon fades, and with it the weighty silence that holds all of his hope. John’s body sways as he recognizes the matching desperation in Sherlock’s face; their hands brush together, and he hooks one tentative finger around one of the detective’s, attempting to still the younger man’s shaking. “Not this time. Not alone.”

“No, not alone. Alone is all wrong, John! I always thought... but I got it wrong... I didn’t _know!_ Two years... alone. I had _no one_ … I didn’t have…”

Sherlock falters for a moment, breathing so erratically John fears he might pass out before he can continue.

Sherlock's eyes flick away, and find a place on the carpet to focus on instead.

John gives it a few moments before he prods him,“Didn’t have what?”

The flat is dead silent but for their breathing for a few more long moments, before the answer comes, so quietly he wonders for a moment if it was actually said.

“You”.

On that one hurriedly whispered word, Sherlock’s eyes flick back to his, and the floodgates open into a stream of near manic speech.

“I saved you, but I nearly lost you! I... I miscalculated... the plan... every eventuality accounted for... but they were not, were they? I didn’t realize... I think I must have known on some level, but I didn’t _realize_... I didn’t factor in... the emotional toll - obviously it was more than ‘not good’ to force you to see it, and to force you to grieve over a person who was never dead - but it was so much more than _that_! I didn’t _know_! I knew how it would be for _me_ , but that was worth it, to save you - I assumed I could just... separate myself from the feelings... but then you - I didn’t think you... I wanted to think, maybe, once... that you did - what The Woman said to you... but I didn’t _know_ you really did! I didn’t know _I_ really did! Then I jumped. I made you watch me die.. and then I spent two years terrified I was watching you do the same thing - but for _real!_ I pretended to take my life - but what I nearly took was _yours._ I couldn’t let you... If you had... If I hadn’t made it back... If Mycroft hadn’t stopped you - I don’t think I could have…”

His voice breaks off and he takes a deep, shuddered breath before rushing on.

“I... I haven’t ever... _this..._ not anyone... I don’t, I didn’t, _do this..._ but then I _did,_ and I don’t know _how,_ but suddenly I just... _did,_ and I _do..._ and I…”

The tremor in the hand he has been so loosely linked to is palpable as John is pulled forward gently by one finger, until they are nearly chest to chest - but he keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s. Allows it. Unsure exactly what to expect, but hoping... hoping…

Wide, wet, still-frightened eyes flick down his face and back up, and he has never seen them look so unguarded as Sherlock swallows hard and goes on, slower and bit more assuredly.

“I have been reliably informed that I do not have a heart. I can say with certainty that this is, in a way, undeniably accurate”.

John doesn’t even notice him raise his hand until Sherlock has it is pressed flat and firm against his chest, his own heart hammering against it.

“I, without a doubt, do not... have one, that is... not anymore... haven’t for some time, John - because I... I gave it to _you.”_

His body is telling him to breathe. Not sure when he stopped, actually. When he forgot what air is for or what lungs do… but the hand on his chest sliding up to graze softly against his damp cheek makes him suck in a breath, like a drowning man surfacing from the deep.

There is sound. A noise, his voice? Trying to speak. Failing. As the pad of a thumb timidly traces his lower lip.

“I told you I would say... the things I’ve never told you... you said ‘If I really _want_ ’, say it. And I _do,_ I _want_ , John. I never _wanted_ before, but, with you, I did... I just didn’t know, then, what it was. I know _now_... the whole of it…”

And Sherlock leans down... presses his forehead lightly to John’s. Soft curls tickling his skin where they meet. So close.

Close enough that he can taste the tremulous words as they are susserated a breath away from his mouth,

“I love you.”

John slips, nearly collapses onto Sherlock’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around the gaunt frame before him, as though he were holding a life preserver in a stormy sea, only relinquishing their hold at a delayed wince from the injured detective.

“I asked you, once, if you would…” he begins, more gentle than John has ever heard him, then nods shyly toward the couch.

“Yes,” John exhales more than speaks, holding the other man’s arm loosely for fear of breaking such a tenuous connection.

Sherlock sits, then, hesitantly, eyes never leaving John’s, he lies on his side, backing gingerly against the cushions. John slides in against him, chest to chest, face to neck, before he can overthink his decision, and runs one hand carefully up Sherlock’s ribs.

“John, I - ” Sherlock’s body shivers beneath his fingers.

“I love you,” John’s voice cuts in, soft and clear.

Sherlock dips his head, using his free hand to lift John’s chin until their eyes meet.

“Sherlock. I love you.”

Their lips brush, finding one another as though it were the thousandth time, until John pulls back ever so slightly, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Will you tell me?” John yawns into Sherlock’s collar as his eyes slide closed.

“Everything,” Sherlock promises, his tone at once pained and joyful.

“It was worth the pain,” John mumbles, his face pressed against the warmth, the scent, of a very much _alive_ Sherlock Holmes.

“You were worth every wound,” come the final hushed words spoken before both men drift into dreamless sleep.

The dawn begins to break over Baker Street on 30 January; the day John Watson comes home.


End file.
